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I know lives, I could miss
Without a Misery—
Others—whose instant's wanting—
Would be Eternity—
The last—a scanty Number—
'Twould scarcely fill a Two—
The first—a Gnat's Horizon
Could easily outgrow—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Lady Feeds Her Little Bird
- It's Such A Little Thing To Weep
- What Shall I Do When The Summer Troubles
- Dying At My Music
- If This Is "Fading"
